


For Heart and Home

by jadeddiva



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 18:34:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1521212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadeddiva/pseuds/jadeddiva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma Swan is just a girl in Storybrooke when the handsome Lieutenant Killian Jones arrives, stationed at Camp Neverland before being shipped out abroad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Heart and Home

Emma can feel the breeze from the open windows against the back of her neck, a cool reprieve on this warm spring morning.  She can feel every pin in her hair, every drop of sweat that trickles from her nape down her blouse, but she pushes her left sleeve back up above her elbow and sets back to rolling bandages.

It is tedious work, but it is good work (anything that can defeat the Kaiser is the best sort of work there is).

Emma, along with her mother and the other women of the Storybrooke Woman’s Club, spends her weekday mornings in the second floor workroom of Red Cross headquarters on Main Street.  It’s a change from the usual tedium of the day, though the afternoons are still spent in club meetings or making social calls or hosting charity events but all that they do is for the direct benefit of the troops.  Sometimes the officers arrive at these gatherings to thank the women for their support, politely taking refreshments and mingling with the women. 

They are sons of Storybrooke, boys that Emma has known since a child, has gone to church with and chatted with at temperance socials and other gatherings and yet, there is something new and different now, something thrilling about the men in uniform (Emma Swan has never been much to swoon over men but there is something about the cut of the uniforms and the way the men carry themselves in them that makes her and every other girl in Storybrooke into simpering, swooning fools).

The officers that arrive at these gatherings are also the ones training at nearby Camp Neverland – men from all over the Eastern Seaboard who are preparing to march overseas, to help serve and protect for the sake of God and country and home.  As a result, the girls of the town are eager to make their acquaintance and though Emma is not husband-hunting at the time, she can see the benefit of a young officer chaperoning her somewhere, and not one that she’s known since she as a chubby-checked child.

The door to the workroom opens and Emma glances up to see two uniformed men enter.  She recognizes one easily – Roland Locksley, step-son of Regina Mills Locksley  - though she does not recognize the other man with him.  Emma has always thought Roland handsome, but other than Woman’s Club meetings and church they do not socialize with Regina because she is an a bit of a radical, an outspoken suffragette (and while Emma’s mother Mary-Margaret agrees with all that Regina says and does privately, it would not do well for the wife and daughter of the mayor to be scene with the other woman).    Emma watches as Regina embraces her step-son, and greets the other man.  Both are dressed smartly in tan – lieutenants, Emma guesses, because most of the college boys from around here are that as well.  

“Admiring them from afar?” her friend Aurora asks, and Emma shrugs, wrapping the bandage tightly and placing it in the basket provided for them.

“A girl can look, can’t she?” she responds. It is spring, and war is at hand, and every moment feels as precious and fragile as if it will be lost forever if she doesn’t seize it.

There is some across the room, and then the other man laughs –a clear, loud, ringing sound that draws Emma’s attention back to Roland, back to the men.  She likes the sound of the other man’s laughter, likes the way that he looks when they talk off their caps and she can see his dark hair slicked back, a near-twin of Roland, whose unruly curls are barely tamed with military-strength pomade.

She looks back down at her bandages and realizes that her and her mother’s baskets are full.  “I can go take these in,” she says, stacking one on top of the other before her mother can protest.  “Shall I get us more?”

“Sure,” Mary-Margaret says, beaming.  “we’ll stay for another hour, at the very least.  There aren’t many volunteers today and they need our help.”  Emma smiles at her mother, who took like this sort of work like a duck to water.  Between the National League for Women’s Service and the Council of Defense, being President of the Woman’s Auxiliary of the Red Cross and leading the pledge for Liberty Loans, Mary-Margaret still managed to sew pajamas in the evenings and it was more than Emma could say for herself.

Emma shifts the baskets in her arms, approaching the doorway where the men and Regina stand, and where both supplies could be found and finished products dropped off.  As she draws closer, the man she doesn’t know – the new officer – takes a few steps to meet her, strong hands are reaching for the baskets.

“Let me take that from you, miss,” a lightly-accented voice says, and her eyes flit upwards to catch the gaze of the stranger (his eyes are blue, so very blue that she stops in her tracks and just nods, she has never seen eyes that blue before).  His fingers brush against hers and he mumbles an apology, but soon the burden is out of her hands and while the stranger walks away to place the basket beside others, Roland approaches.

“Miss Swan,” he says with a wide grin, “I see that you are busy at work.  My mother told me that you and your family are staunch supporters of the war effort.”

Emma can’t help but grin – she’s always liked Roland – and nods.  “We do what we can.”  She wipes her sweaty palms (it cannot be nerves, it must be the heat) and smiles at him.  Between her mother’s commitments and the garden that she is currently trying to put together in their back yard, they are doing all that they can.

“Let me introduce you to Lieutenant Killian Jones – we were both at university together and now we’re stationed at Camp Neverland.  Jones, this is Miss Emma Swan.”

Lieutenant Jones asks politely, “How do you do, Miss Swan?” and there is something about the way that he smiles at her, and the way that his eyes light up when they meet hers, that makes Emma’s breath catch in her throat. 

“Good, Lieutenant Jones,” Emma responds.  “Better, now that I know you’re here to make the burden easier.”

He laughs again – that clear lovely sound – and tells her, “But not without your help, Miss Swan.”

She knows this small-talk well – it’s the sort of small-talk all the officers make with the women of Storybrooke when everyone is full of patriotic fervor and she’s become so accustomed to it that her responses roll off her tongue without much thought.  Except for now.

Now, she feels bold – something about him making her feel a way that she normally doesn’t, and so she merely smiles and says, “Well, you know how women are around smartly-dressed officers,” throwing in a wink at the end for good measure.  The minute the words leave her mouth she feels scandalous – flirting with a man she doesn’t know! – so she quickly grabs another basket of supplies and returns to her table.

She looks back, once, to see what the expression on his face is, and is pleased by the way that he pokes his cheek with his tongue, sly smile on his lips.  She can see the smug grin spread across Regina’s face, and Roland just looks amused, and so she resolves that she won’t feel anything about the exchange - other than a deep and mighty curiosity about the young lieutenant with the charming laugh.

“You look like the cat that got the canary,” Aurora whispers as Emma places the baskets on the table.  “He is handsome, Roland’s friend.”

“Tolerable,” Emma tells her, reaching into the basket for more fabric and hoping that the flush she feels creeping across her face can be blamed on the spring heat.

…

It is Thursday, and Emma is running late.

Today is the day where her mother starts off meeting with the Red Cross board before attending a planning meeting with the Liberty Loan committee and ending up the day back at the Red Cross, counting the number of donations for the week.  Emma is nowhere near as altruistic as her mother, which brings her more than a bit of shame, and she had spent the morning in her father’s office pouring over the paper, reading about the war (and about Camp Neverland  - there is always some sort of story about the troops there for her to read).

All of her delay has made her miss the Red Cross meeting and will make her tardy for the next, and so she sprints out the front door and runs down the front steps in a rush, practically barreling through the front gate on her way to Mrs. Gold’s, where the Liberty Loan meeting is being held.  She collects herself once her feet hit the sidewalk – it would be considered unbecoming if the Mayor’s daughter were to be found running in the streets – but before she can take two steps forward, there is a loud horn behind her and she nearly jumps out of her skin.

“Miss Swan!”

Roland Locksley calls out from the front seat of a motor car, with Killian Jones ( _Lieutenant_ Jones) beside him.  They are both smiling at her, and she does her best to keep her eyes focused on Roland.

“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” she asks, eyes drifting over to Lieutenant Jones, who is looking at her with a guarded expression.

“Are you going to the Liberty Loan meeting, Miss Swan?” Roland asks.  When Emma nods, Lieutenant Jones smiles, and she takes a shaky breath before fixing her attentions solely on Roland (she cannot be distracted by him, she doesn’t even know him).   “Allow us to escort you.”

Lieutenant Jones opens the car door and gets out.  He comes to stand beside it, and offers his hand to Emma.  She takes it nervously, eyes glancing up at his face and that smile, stomach flip-flopping (none of the boys in town, not even those in uniform, make her feel like this).  She allows Lieutenant Jones to guide her into the front seat of the automobile before he slams the door and jumps into the narrow backseat.

Roland takes off, and Emma tries not to think about the fact that Lieutenant Jones is leaning forward in his seat, face close to hers, for the entirety of the brief ride to the Gold’s (nor does she try to dwell too much on how he helps her back down again and how his thumb brushes over her knuckles in a gesture that sends heat to her face despite the layers of gloves between them).

“Why are you attending the meeting?” Emma asks as they head up the walk to the Gold’s house.  

“We are ambassadors for the Camp,” Lieutenant Jones tells them, and she notices that soft accent again that makes him definitely not from around these parts.  “Since the concert will be held for the Camp’s benefit…”

“How lovely that you get to spend some time in town,” Emma says with a nod.  Roland rings the bell at the front door, and they are soon escorted into the dark, cool hallway.

The Gold’s are the wealthiest family in town, though Roland’s own father and step-mother are not poorly situated themselves.  Mr. Gold was involved in banking and often traveled to New York with his son, Neal, whose mother had died when he was but a babe.  One day Mr. Gold returned with a lovely young wife, Belle, who flourished in Storybrooke and was on just as many committees as Emma’s own mother.  They two were good friends, though Emma’s father and Mr. Gold did not always see eye-to-eye.

“Emma! How lovely for you to join us – and I see you brought some handsome young officers with you as well!”  Belle says as she bustles into the hallway, eager to greet Roland and his companion. 

Emma removes her hat, hands it to the maid, and slips into the parlor, where most of the women are already assembled.  The parlor is at capacity, and Emma must stand near the back wall.  Soon, Lieutenant Jones comes to stand beside her, and both listen as the women continue to plan.  Occasionally he and Roland are asked for their opinions, but it becomes obvious that the women have their own ideas, and just before tea is served, he turns to her and asks, in a low voice, “Is this how things are done in Storybrooke?”

Emma glances over to where Roland stands near his step-mother.  “Pretty much,” she admits, and his eyes twinkle at her response and he moves a bit closer to continue their conversation.

“I must say I am quite impressed by the camaraderie and commitment to the war effort of your small town,” he tells her, coming close enough that she can smell is cologne and the hint of mint on his breath.  His voice at this octave is a low purr, and she finds it immensely pleasing.  Emma takes a deep breath, shifts beside him.

“How long do your duties allow you time in our town?” she asks. 

“We go back to Camp after this,” Lieutenant Jones responds.  “But we will be back on Monday to speak at the Woman’s Club, and then the rest of the week leading to the charity concert.”  He smiles at her.  “Thank you for asking, Miss Swan,” he adds, smile splaying on his lips.

“Of course,” she tells him, feeling that same boldness running through her veins once more.  “I would hardly want for you to miss out on all of the joys that Storybrooke has to offer.”

“I can assure you, Miss Swan, that I am already well aware of it and I do not intend to miss out, as you say.”  There is a moment, when he says this to her, that their eyes meet and her breath catches at the earnestness in his expression, the way that he studies her face so carefully for someone who barely knows her.   It is frightening and exhilarating, and she keeps thinking about time, speeding up and running short, and how she wants nothing more than to take advantage of this, all of this.

Her mother calls her from across the room and the spell is broken.  She mumbles her own apology, he moves to let her pass, and their hands brush once more as she goes to stand near her mother (but this time, there are no gloves to separate them, and she can feel the heat of his hand against her own).

…

 “You’re not helping.”

Lieutenant Jones narrows his eyes across the table from her.  “Of course I am,” he says.  “I’m supervising.  That’s what officers do.” His lips quirk up in a smirk as he says it, but there’s laughter in tone and Emma rolls her eyes. 

What this officer does best is sit near Emma while she finishes yet another care package that will be sent off to Europe, as a reminder of all the love and care and pride the people of the United States hold for their soldiers.  She places the final bundle of socks into the crate and then turns back to him where he sits, completely at ease, watching her work.

She puts her hands on her hips.  “Exactly – _supervising_ is not the same as _helping_ and you know that as well as I do,” she chides, and she swears that there is a faint blush coloring his cheeks as she says it.  He rubs the back of his neck with the fingers of his right hand (a gesture that she’s noticed he does when he’s embarrassed) and then looks at her with those ridiculous blue eyes of his and Emma is _lost_.

It’s been like this since he returned on Monday – at her side like an eager puppy whenever they are in the same room, and it’s the third day of it and she can’t say she dislikes the attention.  He helps some of the time, preferring to sit and watch her when she’s doing a chore that doesn’t require his assistance, like knitting socks, but he did help her fold programs for the Liberty Loan concert so she suspects that this is less about helping her and more about being near her.  She’s not pleased with false pretenses, but she is pleased with him.

He talks to her about himself, and piece by piece she learns that his father was British and his mother American, and he was born in Britain but raised here, in Boston.   She learns that he wishes he was in the Navy instead of the Army (apparently he spends his summers at the wharfs doing god knows what but it’s obvious his family is not wealthy), and that he has an older brother who is an officer as well.   Emma answers questions that he asks but she has fewer answers and far less interesting things to talk about since she’s only lived in Storybrooke, hasn’t gone off to university though there has been talk of attending a woman’s college in the fall.   She tells him more about the town and some stories about her childhood, but she gets the feeling that he’s only asking her because he wants her to keep taking (she doesn’t find that a problem – she wants him to keep listening).

He helps her with the crate, carrying it to the rest that will be shipped overseas.  As they walk, she catches Aurora’s eye, and her friend puckers her lips in the direction of Lieutenant Jones.  Emma can’t help but blush – it’s got to be fairly obvious that he is showing preference towards her and even though he is expressing this preference by lingering, it’s always in the eyes of a watchful chaperone – her mother, or another female member of the auxiliary, and thus far no one has seen fit to correct him.

Once he places the crate down he turns to her, catching the flush of her cheeks, and asks in a low voice, “Is anything the matter, Miss Swan?” but she just shakes her head that no, there is not (she still cannot call him by his first name).  It’s when she looks up at him again and he’s looking at her like she’s the most interesting thing in the world that she feels her heart jump to her throat.

There is a tension between them (or maybe it’s just her), anxiousness over the loss of time mixed with ideas formed from when time was very much a luxury.  It does not help that she is a fool for a man in uniform, but she is quickly coming to realize that she is very much foolish when it involves him, his blue eyes and handsome face, the way that he looks at her like she is the only girl in the world.

“Emma!” Her mother calls out, coming to her side.  “It is time we should be getting home.  Lieutenant Jones, thank you for all of your help today.  Will we see you tomorrow at Mrs. Locksley’s house?”

Lieutenant Jones smiles and nods, promising Emma’s mother that he will be there willing to help, and he looks at her one more time – a long, lingering glance that sends heat to Emma’s stomach – before they leave. 

“Lieutenant Jones seems to be very nice,” Mary-Margaret says as she loops her arm through Emma’s.  “And he is very devoted to you.”

“He barely knows me,” Emma tells her mother, and Mary-Margaret chuckles. 

“I had only just met your father before I knew he was the _one_ ,” her mother reminds her, and Emma sighs as her mother launches into the story that she has heard since she was a little girl: how her mother met her father when he was a but a young law clerk visiting Storybrooke.  They met at once, at her father’s office, and it was true love ever since.

Emma has always heard their story but assumed that it was a fairy tale, not one that she might ever have in her own life.  She hasn’t put much thought into things like love or marriage, not with the idea of possibly going to college, of leaving Storybrooke, still lingering in the back of her mind.  But this war is making every moment matter, and the moments that she spends with Lieutenant Jones – _Killian_ – are when time slows down, and when anything seems possible.

Perhaps this is something she will need to think about.

…

Emma wipes the sweat off her brow with the back of her hand, feeling the trail of dirt that is left behind.  The warm spring sun is beating down on her as she digs into the dirt, but she enjoys the feeling of exhaustion in her limbs, the feeling that with each seed that she plants, she’s building something worthwhile.

“You’ve got a bit of dirt on your face.”

She whips her head up to spot ~~Lieutenant~~ Killian Jones idling by the garden’s gate, a box in his hands.  “Are those from Regina?” she asks, looking pointedly at the box, and he nods.  “Come on in.”

He reaches over to unlatch the gate, and makes sure to close it behind him, as Emma stands and wipes her dirty palms on her old skirt.   She stretches, feeling an ache in her back, and when she looks over at Killian, he is watching her with a guarded look.

“So what’s in the box, Miss Swan?” he asks, holding the box away and just out of her reach.  She makes to grab for it, her fingers brushing against the coarse woolen fabric of his uniform, and the feel of him so solid in front of her catches her off guard.  It seems to catch him off guard as well, because she takes the box from him easily afterwards. 

“If you must know, seeds for my garden,” Emma says with a grin, opening the box to remove the seed packets that Regina ordered for her.  Carrots, green beans, lettuce – she is excited to see what her garden will become.  She reads the backs of the seed packages carefully, and when she looks back up it is to find Killian taking off his officer’s coat and placing it over the fence.  He is now clad in only a light white shirt and his woolen trousers, and she diverts her eyes in embarrassment.  

“Well, let’s get started then,” Killian tells her, reaching for the large garden shovel.   Emma blinks, surprised.

“You’re going to help me?” she asks, and Killian just shrugs. 

“I had intended to find a way to spend time with you this afternoon, but since the opportunity has presented itself…” he tells her with a smile, and Emma feels her stomach somersault.  This has definitely taken an interesting turn, for she was idly considering walking to Regina’s to fetch the package herself in the hopes of finding him there.

“You think highly of yourself, don’t you?” she asks, looking away to hide her excitement.  She sinks back onto her knees and starts to dig into the soil again.

“Doesn’t matter what I think of myself, just that you think highly of me,” he remarks.  She hears the shovel hit the dirt, and when she looks up, he is looking down at her with a cheeky grin.  

“Well?” he asks, and Emma shrugs her shoulders.

“I will make my decision about your character after you show me that you know how to _help_ ,” she cautions him.   He laughs (she loves his laugh) and steps down on the shovel.

“I do love a challenge, Miss Swan,” he tells her.  “Now, tell me what you need me to do.”

With Killian at her command, Emma is able to work faster.  They work through the rows she had finished weeding this morning, Killian paying careful attention to her directions as she tells him how deep to dig.  They read the instructors for how to plant each seed together, and he listens to her when she instructs him about spacing.

They work like this for some time, and it occurs to her that she likes him there, working beside her – _being_ beside her.  She allows her thoughts to drift, to imagine that this is their home, their garden, that there is no war and that he will not be leaving at some point in the future. 

It is a pleasant thought.

“You never told me what you would study if you went to college,” he asks, knees in the soil, covering the seed he has just planted carefully.  Emma pours more seeds into her open palm, and he takes one from her, fingers brushing against her hand, gold sigil ring of his university gleaming in the sun.

“I don’t know,” she tells him honestly, because she doesn’t. “I don’t even know if I will go to college.”

“I don’t intend to be presumptuous by saying this, Miss Swan, but I don’t think you’d be happy here, adding Ladies Auxiliary meetings and quilting bees.”  Killian doesn’t look at her when he says this, even if she looks at him, and she wonders at what point he started to see her so clearly.

“You’re right,” she says softly, “I wouldn’t be.  My mother is great at this sort of life, but I don’t want to sit and listen to speakers or clap politely when another society woman mauls a minuet on the piano at some charity gathering.”  She looks at him when he reaches for another seed.  “What do you study?”

“Geography and politics,” he tells her.  “I received a scholarship to study politics – I was a rather good public speaker in school – but I like to learn about the world.  There’s more to life than just this place where we exist.”

Emma smiles at his eloquent words.  “I like that.”  She places her remaining seeds in the row, slowly covers them up with soil.  “Maybe I could be a teacher.”

“I thought you didn’t like speeches, Miss Swan, and here you want to become the speaker,” he teases her.  She huffs out a laugh.

“I like learning, and I like doing, and I could always do both – teach children how to plant a garden while we learn about nature.”  She traces a pattern in the soil with her fingertip.  “It’s just a thought.”

“I think you would be a lovely teacher, Miss Swan – look how much you’ve taught me in just a few hours.”  Killian grins at her, and she can’t help but be pleased at the compliment.

They stand back and admire their handwork, and as Killian stretches his back, he tells her, “You know, Miss Swan, I think we make quite a team.”

She more than agrees, and she is turning to tell him such when she takes in the way that sweat trickles down his neck, the way that his shirt clings to his body, the muscles of his arms as he wipes his brow, and she licks her lips without thinking.  It is at that moment that he looks at her again, eyes lingering on her mouth, watching her actions, and she feels self-conscious, uncertain of herself, burning up in the mid-day sun. 

“I’m going to get us some lemonade,” she says, brushing past time and heading into the house.   The door slams shut behind her and she’s in the cool kitchen, heart racing, palms sweaty.

She has never felt this way, never experienced anything like this before – this feeling of intensity that is spreading through her body when she thinks about his intentions towards her, the way that he looks at her, the way that _she_ looks at _him_ (and not only that but the way that he seems to know her, seems to understand what she is about better than even her parents do, in such short time he has learned the secrets of her soul and she doesn’t know what to do with such a revelation).

She knows that Johanna, their housekeeper, is buying groceries, her mother is at another meeting, her father is at work, and so she is alone – unchaperoned – with a young man in her backyard.   She reaches for the icebox, throws open the door and pulls out the pitcher of lemonade she helped Johanna make just this morning.

The back door swings open just as she’s removing two glasses from a nearby cabinet.  She places them on the countertop next to the pitcher, taking a moment to compose herself before glancing up at Killian, who leans in the doorway.

“Lemonade?” she asks, well aware of how breathless she sounds, and when he nods, she pours them both glasses.  Their fingers brush as she hands one to him, and she removes her hand quickly, shakily reaching for her own and taking a long drink.  She watches as he does the same, eyes focusing on the long lines of his neck (she looks away quickly).

“I apologize if I’ve been forward, Miss Swan,” he says, scratching the back of his neck.  “It was not my intent but…” he trails off, looks away, then up at the ceiling.  “I’m sorry, war makes idiots of us all.”

Emma takes a deep breath and says, “Emma.  You can call me Emma,” for if this man understands her soul, then there is no reason for her to remain so distant.

“Emma.”  Her names sounds different when he says it – richer, less child-like, and her heart beats loudly in her ears.  “It’s a lovely name.”

“Thank you, Killian,” she says, smiling as she takes liberties with his own name.  It does not seem to bother him – instead it spurs him onward, and he takes a step forward, cups her face in his hand.   He takes another step forward and she can feel the heat of his body, can see his pupils blown wide, and she closes the distance between them, pressing her lips against his.   The kiss starts gentle, his thumb brushing against the apple of her cheek, his other hand coming to rest on her hip.  She places her hands on his chest, feeling his heart pound beneath her palms, enjoying as his sucks at her bottom lip, encourages her to open her mouth to him (she’s kissed boys before but never like this, never with such urgency and need).

He pulls her tighter to him, and she melts into his arms, lips moving against his, the kiss growing deeper and deeper until finally he pulls away, presses a tender kiss against her forehead, strokes her back.

“We’re shipping out in two weeks,” he tells her (his breath ghosts across her collarbone and she shivers as it hits her oversensitive skin).  “Would you wait for me?”

“Wait for you?” she asks, still kiss-drunk.  She barely knows him but the thought seems right, so very right, like there will never be anyone else she would wait for but him. 

“Would you?” he asks, and when she opens her eyes there is a small smile on his lips.  

She presses a kiss against his lips, impressed by his earnestness and matching it with her own.  “Yes,” she whispers against his mouth, “yes, Killian Jones, I will wait for you.”

He captures her lips in a kiss again, this one more chaste, before stepping back.  He slips off his sigil ring from his right hand and holds it out to her.

“I will get you a better one, once I speak to your father, but for the time being -” he tells her, and before he can make any more grand romantic declarations and before she can even register the feeling of giddiness that is building in her heart, the front door slams.

“My father,” Emma squeaks, “home for lunch.”

They both stare at each other guiltily while her father calls out, “Emma! Are you in here?”  Killian quickly steps back, and Emma closes her hand around the ring, slipping it into her pocket and turning towards the hall.   As she exits the kitchen, she hears the door to the back porch swing open and shut, and she tries to school her features into innocence ( _she was not just kissing a boy in her kitchen, she was not just promising an officer that she would wait for him, she was just gardening…)._

“Hello, Papa,” she says, closing the kitchen door behind her.  David Swan is placing his hat on the hat rack, and he clutches Killian’s uniform jacket in his hand. 

“How was gardening, Emma?” he asks, apprehension in his eyes, and she does her best to keep a straight face.

“Lieutenant Jones helped me with the rows – really, Papa, you should come and see how much we accomplished,” she says, taking the jacket from him, fingers gripping the coarse wool nervously.   She leads her father through the kitchen out to the back porch, where Killian is sipping his lemonade innocently, as if he had never been in her kitchen at all.

“Hello, Mayor Swan,” he says, extending hand in greeting.  “A pleasure to finally meet you.”

Emma drapes his uniform over the back porch railing, then stands beside her father.  “Perhaps we should invite Killian for lunch? I know Johanna has more than enough ham to feed the entire American army.”

David looks at Killian, who does his best to look like nothing more than a proper officer, aided by the fact that he is tugging on his uniform jacket once more.   With a nod, David agrees.

“Would you like to stay for lunch, Lieutenant Jones?” he asks, and when Killian readily agrees, Emma retreats to the kitchen to fix them all plates of food (and when her fingers slip into the pocket of her skirt, and brush against Killian’s sigil ring, she sighs with happiness).

…

David invites Killian to dinner the next night, and at some point before the young lieutenant leaves that evening (but after both he and Emma are nearly caught making doe-eyes at each other across the dining room table) he speaks with her father and expresses his intentions towards Emma.   The conversation must go well, because her father agrees, and her mother squeals with delight, when Emma walks Killian to the front gate, she presses a kiss on his clean-shaven cheek in spite of her parents watching.

He sits next to her at the concert the following evening, hand reaching for hers when the lights dim.  Their fingers entwine and she sighs, so very happy in this moment.   His sigil ring she wears on a long chain beneath her dress, and she can feel the warm metal pressed against her heart, where it belongs.

And when he must go – when she accompanies Regina and Robin Locksley to the harbor, where the men will be loaded onto a transport ship and sent to Boston, and then overseas – she tries not to cry when he gripes her hand too hard, words unspoken on his lips, tries to think about how all the reports say the war is nearly over, that the American forces are turning the tide of the battle, that he will come home to her soon.

Once he is safely on board the ship, she turns to walk away and Regina comes to walk beside her.  She places her hand on Emma’s back, gently strokes it as if to calm her, and Emma remembers, vaguely, that Regina lost her own fiancé (when she was much younger, well before Robin) in the war against Spain, all those years ago.

“It’s never easy saying goodbye to those we love,” the other woman tells her.  “I hope that you know you’re welcome to come for tea, Emma.”  The gesture is overwhelming, and when Emma blinks back tears, tries to smile, Regina nods in understanding.

Emma throws herself into the war effort, weeds her garden with intention, knits socks and makes pajamas, and writes letters, and in the darkest hour of the night, turns Killian’s ring over and over in her hand, pretending that she is closer to him than she really is.

 

…

While Killian is gone, Emma takes Regina up on her offer for tea and companionship.   She doesn’t know the other woman well, but they find a kinship in their concern for the men they care about who are  overseas.   She knows that Regina married Robin, Roland’s father, when Roland was still young, and so she’s raised the boy as her own son since then. 

At first they only talk about the war and what they’re doing to help the war effort.  Emma talks of her garden, flourishing in the summer sun.  They knit socks and read the letters that they receive from Roland, who tells them about the men and the rations and the fighting (whatever makes it past the censors).   Sometimes Regina’s husband Robin joins them, and he reads them out loud while Emma listens, building an image of the front in her mind. 

It sounds unpleasant, and she knows it must be hell.

Killian writes her letters too, but they are never about the front.  Instead, they are epic poems about how ardently he admires her, lists of questions he desperately wants answered (did she ever have any childhood pets? Does she have a sweet tooth?), and sometimes stories about the people he meets over there – never war, never pain, never horror.  It’s always about her, and as the letters progress over his months away, it soon becomes plans for the future.  He talks about living on the water; she writes back that she’s dreamt of waking up to the call of sea-gulls; he teases her and tells her gulls are a nuisance best avoided (“more like rats then birds, Emma, and not worth their melodic cries”).

She learns to love him through his letters, learns to love his wry sense of humor and his charm, his earnestness and his affection, and she waits eagerly for the war to end.

The span between each letter spreads weeks if not longer, and so she reads and rereads each one until the writing begins to fade and she most hold them up against the light to make out the now-familiar script (they are a pale substitute for the person who writes them, who she misses with an intensity that surprises her).

“How do you stand it?” she asks Regina one day.  “How did you stand it with Daniel?”

Regina has been open about her fiancé who died in the war.  Emma’s not sure why, but she assumes it’s because Regina is preparing her for the worst while allowing her to hope for the best.  It’s very considerate, and Emma appreciates that Regina should be so kind. 

Regina is sitting at her desk, and she stops writing when she hears Emma’s question.  She places her fountain pen back in its place, and folds her hands in her lap.

“I didn’t,” she tells her.  “I didn’t stand it.  It drove me nearly mad, knowing he was there and that I may never see him again.  And when the news came…”

“What did you do, then?” Emma asks.  She pulls the chain with Killian’s ring out, plays with it.  The gold gleams in the afternoon light.

“I survived.  I moved on, and I fell in love again, and while I think of Daniel every day, I know that I am happy now, and he would want me to be happy.”

The thought of anyone other than Killian in her life makes her feel uneasy (maybe because she’s only just gotten used to the fact that there is someone who wants a future with her). 

As the year passes, Emma tells Regina about the plans that she and Killian have made – teaching, living near the water - and Regina shares some of her own history, like her degree from Radcliffe, her meeting Robin at a suffrage rally, and it brings the two of them closer.  Emma is grateful for the friendship the other woman offers, which makes the sorrow so much greater.

She is with Regina when the telegram arrives, alerting her of Roland’s injury.  There is was an artillery attack, and Roland’s unit was caught in the bombardment.

He has lost a leg.

They are sending him home.

The war ends three weeks later.

(There is no news of Killian.)

…

There is a frantic pounding at the door, and Emma races for it, beating Johanna in her haste.  She has been on pins and needles since the telegram came to the Locksleys (no one knows about her engagement save for her family and Regina’s, she’s not even sure if Killian’s family knows and it haunts her not knowing if she will ever find out until Roland returns and if even then he will know - )

It is Regina, and she is clutching a telegram. 

“Killian is in Boston, with Roland,” she tells Emma, thrusting the telegram under her nose but Emma can hardly focus, the words blurring.  She blinks, and Regina says that he is at the same hospital as Roland, that they arrived last week but Roland only just got the chance to tell them, that he wants them to visit –

“What happened to Killian?” Emma asks, uncertain of what to do with the paper in her hands. If Roland has returned because he lost a leg, what injury has Killian sustained?

Regina pauses, looks at Emma with sad eyes. “He lost his hand.”

Emma’s fingers reach for the ring she wears, the one that hangs over her heart.  She remembers his hands in the garden, remembers him helping her plant seeds, remembers the feeling of his hand in hers, on her face, on her hip, on her back. 

He is alive.

And he is missing a hand.

But he is _alive._

She barks out a laugh then covers her mouth, ashamed at how overjoyed she is because Killian is not dead, not buried in some potter’s field in France _no_ he is hours away and he is here and she can see him. 

“When are you going to Boston?” she asks, nervous energy flooding her veins.

“Robin wants to leave tomorrow,” Regina tells her. “Let’s see if your parents will allow you to join us.”

The train ride down to Boston is the longest of Emma’s life, and the scenery blurs as the train rushes forward, bringing her closer and closer to the man she loves (because that’s what this is, right? This feeling of happiness and joy and fear and everything all mingled together, making each breath sharp and her head pound, she cannot contain it all). 

They visit Roland first (it’s only polite) and he seems to be in good spirits for a boy missing his left leg.   He shakes his head when Emma expresses concern, only tells her, “There are replacements for my leg.  There are no replacements for my life.”

He directs her to Killian’s cot, in the next room, but warns her that things have changed.  “He is not the man that he was, Emma,” Roland says.  “War has changed him.”

She smiles away the warning, but her arrival next door makes Roland’s words all the more clear.

When Killian spots her, a look of horror crosses his face and he clutches his arm – his left arm, where there is no longer a hand – to his chest, as if frightened that she should see him like this.

“Hello,” she says, watching as he stands up and approaches her.  His shoulders are slumped, and he seems smaller than he was before - her dashing officer lost in Europe.  He is not alone – all of the men in this hospital seem like shells, staring into space, looking lost. 

“Miss Swan,” he responds, keeping himself quite the distance from her.  He looks out the window, doesn’t meet her eyes. “Are you here with the Locksleys?”

Emma nods.  “Regina shared Roland’s message that you were here.  They brought me down.”  She takes a deep breath, lets it out, remembers the courtyard she saw from the other room.   She cannot stay in this room, cannot stay here, with all of these ghosts.   “Perhaps we could walk outside? It’s lovely today.”

Killian nods, barely seeming to pay attention to her, and she does not move to take his arm or touch him, no matter how much she wants to.  She wraps her own arms around herself as they leave the ward.  The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and even though her heart wants to fly out of her chest with happiness, Emma feels cold and feverish at the same time.

They make idle small talk – he asks about her parents, she tells him about the parade that her mother is organizing – until she asks him how he is, and then everything changes.

“Quite well, Miss Swan,” he tells her sarcastically, “save for the missing hand.”

Emma tries to be sincere when she says, “Could they replace it with something? Roland mentioned his leg – “

Killian laughs – not the sound she so loved, but rather a dark, deep one full of melancholy and pain.  “With what, Miss Swan? A hook?”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me Miss Swan,” she tells him.  “You have asked for my hand in marriage.  We are promised to each other.”  She pauses, then adds, “You didn’t call me Miss Swan in your letters.”

The look that Killian gives her sends a chill up her spine, and he says, “The man that wrote those letters is dead.  You would do best to forget him.”

Emma takes a deep breath, lungs hurting with the need to contain herself (there is a stubborn streak in her a mile wide that she gets from her mother).  “I could never forget you.  I love you.”

“NO!”  Killian is loud and forceful, bitter and angry.  He clenches his hand into a fist, looks away from her.  “The man you loved is dead.  He died in France.  He died whole.”  He looks down at his stump.  “I’m not a whole man,” he says, voice low and tight and full of such self-loathing that Emma recoils at the sound of it.  “I’ll have my ring back, then.”

Emma’s hand immediately reaches for her heart, fingers brushing against the metal hidden under her dress.  “No,” she says instinctively.  What they had may have faded, but she wants this – wants to keep it, as a memento of what she has lost.  “It was a gift – I think I’ll keep it as a reminder not to trust in love.”

His eyes widen as she storms out of the courtyard, through the ward, heading down the stairs and to the outdoors, where she takes in large gulps of air like she has been running a foot-race.   Her emotions finally catch up to her and she feels cold – so very cold, so very lost, so very alone in this very large city.

She waits on the steps until Regina and Robin leave.  Regina sits beside her on the train-ride, not saying anything, just holding her hand while Emma looks out the window (it is only when she is home that night, in her bedroom ,that she lets the tears come as she mourns the loss of her dreams).

…

Her chest aches the next morning – from a broken heart, Emma knows – and she spends most of the day lounging in bed, reading over Killian’s letters to her.  She wonders if he hates himself, or if he wants her to hate him.  She doesn’t understand why it would matter so much that he be whole – he is home, and that is far more than some women can say about the men they love. 

She barely touches her food at dinner, heart too heavy, head too heavy, body feeling like it is caught in the undertow as she struggles to get her head above water – everything is fuzzy and too bright, she is hot and cold, she is overwhelmed.

Emma rises to help Johanna clear the dishes. 

Her vision narrows.

There is a loud crash, a loud cry, and then darkness. 

…

She is on fire.

She is made of ice.

The sensations ebb and flow, and she is still drifting out to sea, still caught in the undertow, lost.

There is noise – there are people with her – her mother, her father, also trapped beneath the water, drifting in and out of her vision.  Dr. Hopper is there, and Regina, and Johanna, and she wonders why they are following her out to the sea – they cannot be lost, they cannot be with her –

And then there is Killian.

She can feel the press of his lips against her forehead, taste the bitterness of her lost love on her lips, before the currents pull her back under.

...

It is evening when she wakes – in her bed, the sheets beneath her damp, her nightgown sticking to her back with sweat as she struggles to sit up.   She looks around the room, notices that the sunset casts shadows across the floorboards, that the shadows fall upon Killian reading a book in a nearby chair (she watches him prop it on his lap, turning it with his right hand, favoring the bandaged stump of the left).

“I thought you were in Boston,” she says, her voice sounding harsh to her own ears, her mouth so very dry as she realizes she is clad in nothing but her nightgown and Killian is here, in her bedroom. 

Killian jolts, glancing over to her and the look on his face is so different from the last look she saw there – the one of contempt and self-hatred, now replaced with joy and relief – that she nearly sobs.  He rushes to her side, kneeling beside her, reaching for water glass on the bedside table.

“Drink this,” he tells her (his hand is shaking, _why is his hand shaking?_ ) “Your fever has broken.”

“Fever?” Emma asks.  Killian nods as he guides the glass to her lips.  She takes two small but painful sips.

“You caught influenza,” he tells her, placing the glass back on the bedside table.  “You’re lucky to be alive.”

Emma swallows, her throat feeling raw.  She remembers the newspaper articles her father read at breakfast, warning of the epidemic spreading through Europe and now America -

“You took a turn for the worst, it seems,” he tells her with a smile.  He still kneels beside her bed, and Emma wants to take pity on him but the circumstances of their last meeting are still sketched in her memory, lingering in the corners that are not full of fever-dreams and hallucinations.  She remembers he asked for his ring back; she remembers her refusal (she wonders where it is now).

“Why are you here?” she asks.  He stands, walks away from her back towards his chair, and when he looks back at her, it is the look of a broken man.

“Regina,” Killian tells her.  “Regina came to the hospital, and told me that you were ill – that you were dying.”  He chokes on the last word.  “She had some other choice words for my selfishness, but I dare not repeat them in polite company.”

“And you took the train?” Emma asks, trying to piece together the story, body still weak from the fever. 

Killian shakes his head.  “No, the Locksleys drove to fetch me, and drove me here.  Your parents were a bit surprised by our arrival but they took it in stride.”  He scratches the back of his neck, nervous.  “Your mother particularly went on for some time about the power of true love.”

Emma rolls her eyes, even though it takes some effort,

“Perhaps that’s what saved me,” she says, pulling the sheets up as she settles back into her bed.  Killian smirks at her.

“That, or the rum we procured on the drive here,” Killian says, sitting back down into his chair.  When Emma raises her eyebrows, remembering the bitter taste that she swallowed, he adds, “I heard a nurse say that alcohol was the cure for the flu and I was willing to take a leap of faith.”

Emma smiles at him, resting her head on the pillow.  She still feels tired even though she’s awake and alert.  She wants to yell at him – to ask him to leave - but truthfully, seeing him here, in her space, makes her happy (as does the thought that he mentioned the power of love – perhaps he does love her still?)

“Some leap,” she comments.  “All things considered.”

“Emma.”  He says her name with reverence and sadness, “I said some things that I shouldn’t have.  I wasn’t expecting you, and I let the darkness inside me come out.”

He sighs, sits down in the chair, runs his hand through his hair. 

“How did it happen?” she asks softly.

When he looks up at her, there is such sadness in his blue eyes that her breath catches in her throat.  

“We lost control of a gun during an enemy bombardment.  It crushed my hand, and Roland’s leg.”  He sighs, leans back into the chair, looks at his hand and stump.  “I’m not a whole man, Emma – I’m not sure what I could do to provide for you if we were to be married, and it haunts me.”

Emma scoffs at his words, pretending not to see the look of hurt that crosses his face.  “You know I don’t care about your hand, right?” she says.  “You’re here.  You’re home.  You’re with me, and that’s all that matters.”  She extends her own hand, reaching for him, and he stands up reluctantly, crosses the room and sits down at the foot of her bed warily.    He entwines his hand with hers, and the solid warmth of him is a comfort.

“If you’re going to take a leap of faith, why don’t you believe that you’re good enough for me just the way you are?” she asks.  “Besides, I might apply to the normal school in Framingham – Regina thinks it would be a good idea.  I could take care of you.”  She smiles at him, and Killian shakes his head, a grin on his face.

“Regina has been rubbing off on you, I see.”  Killian tells her.  “Perhaps we can come to some arrangement.”  He reaches in his pocket, pulls out his college ring.  “Shall we try this again?”

Emma smiles as he places the ring in her hand, appreciating the familiar warmth in her palm.  “Yes,” she says, just as there are voices from down below, her mother shouting,“Killian? _Emma?”_ \- her parents racing up the stairs (she is not sure if the sounds she hears are the sounds of her parents footsteps or the beating of her heart).

 …

“You’re not helping.”

Killian looks up from the paper.  “I’m supervising,” he says before he notices James across the yard, toddling on his tiny legs towards the gate.   He puts it down on the table and rises, fetching the young boy easily.  He holds him with his right arm, walks him over to where Emma works, hands deep in the soil.

Emma wipes off her dirty palms on her old skirt, allows Killian to dip the child down so that their faces brush.  James squeals in delight when his father lifts him back up, spinning him around before depositing him back on the ground.

“Watch him this time?” Emma asks, and Killian brushes a kiss against her forehead.

“As you wish,” he replies, sinking onto the grass beside her, dividing his attention between his wife and his son.

Emma can hear the cries of the gulls from the nearby bay, feel the heat of the sun against her neck, the trickle of sweat that slides down the back of her spine, and she smiles.


End file.
